5. Strike
Strike
Strike stared at her warily.
He had numerous questions, but her shaking hands as she clutched her memory box and her doe eyes wide with fear forced him into action.
“Okay, I’ve got you.”
For a second, her glare softened. “Thank you.”
He couldn’t respond to her gratitude. Embracing emotion would make him weak.
“Come with me, and don’t make a noise.”
He grabbed the box in one hand and took hers in his other. It was warm and soft. She wasn’t tiny, yet her hand was nothing in his.
Strike led her down the stairs. He pressed himself against the wall, and she copied. The silhouette of a stranger filled the glass of the front door.
He scanned the hallway, searching for changes from when he’d crept through the backdoor, but there was nothing.
He gripped a trembling Millie tighter.
Memories of when she was nervous during her tennis matches at school, when he’d take breaks in the middle of his rugby practice and whistle and wink at her when her competitor tried to psych her out, came to him.
Strike’s eyes locked with hers, and he winked.
Adult Millie glared back.
The last time he saw her, she’d told him she was giving up her dream of studying to be a doctor, so in a year she’d join him at his university, even though it didn’t run courses in medicine. Softly, she’d said, “It doesn’t matter because, for you, I’ll give up everything to be where you are.”
If she hadn’t said that, maybe things would be different.
Millie nudged him. Her vanilla and berry scent had him dragging saliva into his throat. Her glare was unrelenting. It was what he needed. This was about safety, not reminiscing his failures.
Since he’d last seen her, he’d become a man who thought through every decision to ensure nothing went wrong.
In the darkness of the hallway, with someone beating down the door, he needed that skill more than ever.
Strike tugged her through the hallway and into the kitchen. It was immaculate. Millie’s mum was renowned for her perfectionism, which extended to how she treated her house and her children. She was the most overprotective parent. Had she told Millie about her part in his leaving?
He ran his fingers over a wooden photo frame positioned near the door. He’d made it from scraps of wood he’d found during the camping trip where he’d declared his feelings for Millie.
She yanked her hand out of his.
“Don’t touch that photo,” she snapped.
Grown-up Millie had curves and a body so soft that in another lifetime, he’d have done everything to have it beneath him. But now she hated him, and he needed her hate to fuel his focus.
The doorbell rang, and she gasped. He held his finger to her lips, and her eyes widened.
His finger lingered longer than necessary.
But he was a bodyguard now, not a teenager. He was a man who’d seen and done the worst things imaginable.
He dragged his finger away and grabbed the key from his pocket, slipping it into the backdoor and turning it with barely a click.
Chilled spring air hit his skin as he stepped into the back garden.
Her heat against his back threatened his resolve as he squinted left and right. Leaves crackled as a cat dared to test the boundaries of the garden, and feathers fluttered as a bird took flight.
“Cherry cola,” Millie murmured.
He chanced a glance over his shoulder. The tip of Millie’s tongue peeked out, and she licked where his finger had touched her.
His jaw slackened as her tongue swept her lips again.
Her eyes flashed to his, and she jumped away.
He stuttered, “Come with me. I came through the sneak route. Your parents still haven’t fixed it. They need to improve their safety measures.”
As he locked the door and returned the key under the rock, she said sardonically, “I’ll tell them how much you care.”
He tempered his bristling shoulders as they crept to the fence, where several planks had been moved to the side. The gap was his sneaky route when they were teenagers. He pushed her through and followed after her. His bulk made it difficult to slip through, but he’d already done it once that night.
As they reached the backdoor to his house, someone banged on the front.
His pulse sped, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose like red flags waving his impending doom, but adrenaline was his friend.
“Hide in here.” He eased open a now-empty kitchen cupboard.
“Are you fucking serious?” Millie hissed between gritted teeth.
“Yes.” The banging was relentless.
“How small do you think I am? Just because I’m not the size of a fucking action hero like you—”
“You’ll fit, Millie. Get in.”
She stared back at him. Sweat beaded her forehead, and her nostrils flared. He needed to make her safe before she froze with terror. That he enjoyed controlling her, just as he had in his fantasies, was something he couldn’t fixate on.
“You never spoke to me like that when we were young, even when I pressed all your buttons.”
“News alert, we’ve both changed. Get in that fucking cupboard now, or I’ll throw you in,” he snarled.
She slunk to her knees and crawled in, grumping as she went.
Don’t linger on her obedience or the way her bum looks. He was usually so fucking professional that he pissed off his team, but five minutes in Millie’s presence and his thoughts jumbled.
“I told you you’d fit. Listen to me next time.” He shoved the glittery memory box in with her and closed the door.
“Fuck you,” she grunted, and he wiped off his smirk as he walked to the front door.
A ginger police officer with an earnest face and furrowed eyebrows greeted him as he opened the door.
He knew more about Millie than she realised. The only thing dangerous about her social media was the dark romances she read and that he’d enjoyed too much himself.
“Can I help you, officer?” Strike asked with an authoritative edge.
The officer pulled his shoulders back and eyeballed him, but his youthful face proved he’d not experienced the kind of life Strike had survived. “We’re looking for Millie Haven. She lived next door. I believe her parents still live there. Have you seen her?”
Strike scratched his chin, feigning ambivalence. “I haven’t seen her in ten years. I don’t live here. I’m packing. My parents are selling this house.”
“Are you sure you haven’t? Her car is parked down the street.”
“I’ve had my head down. I’m leaving soon.”
“Where are you going?”
His stomach flared, but he stilled his face. “I have a holiday booked in Wales and won’t be easily contactable,” he lied. Until he knew the facts, Millie was his to keep safe. “If there’s anything else I can help you with, call my office.”
With a move akin to a hedge fund manager rather than a former soldier who’d killed for his own safety, he slipped him a business card as another guy joined the officer.
Hugo Dankworth. He’d recognise the prick anywhere.
“You worked for my dad.”
Strike fought to stop his shoulders from hunching. I saved your good-for-nothing arse the night of a carol concert. “What’s Miss Haven supposed to have done?”
“We found her ID at a crime scene where a man was stabbed in a side street in London. We believe she was a witness.”
“She did it,” Hugo screeched. His pupils were dilated, and he rapidly tapped his fingers against his arm. He was back on coke or ketamine.
A flashback to a night involving someone closer to home, someone he’d rescued after Strike had found him unconscious from drugs, pushed him to the edge.
But that was something else Millie didn’t know, something he’d promised never to tell her.
“I saw her run away as I came into the street. She stabbed a guy.”
Strike sucked in a breath. “Millie wouldn’t do that. She’s scared of her own shadow. From what my parents say when speaking to hers, she barely leaves her apartment.”
“Be that as it may, we still want to talk to her. If you see her, tell her to contact us immediately. She can come to the station and give her statement. If she’s done nothing wrong, she’ll be fine.”
“If that’s everything…”
“We should search his house. Maybe she’s here.” Hugo stamped his foot.
Strike lowered his voice to a growl. “Based on how you looked over my shoulder the entire time, you’ve seen enough. The house is empty. The movers came hours ago.”
Hugo attempted to shove his foot against the door, but Strike leaned his full weight against it.
“But—"
“Understood,” the officer replied. “I’ll monitor her car and wait for her return.”
Strike slammed the door closed. His boots thumped the lino-covered floor. He yanked the cupboard open and gave her a dead-eyed stare. “What happened? Who stabbed that guy?”
“Your boss’s son.” She crawled out of the cupboard. “I need to go.”
He rocked on his heels. “You’re not going anywhere without me. You need me.”
And for the second time that evening, he grabbed her hand and took control.